The days no longer really seem to have a beginning, middle and end. More like each day just feels like returning to interrupted, previously scheduled programming. I think any semblance of a regular schedule evaporated yesterday. Still can’t really be creative, but I did burn through Don DeLillo’s novel, White Noise. Truly a masterpiece of contemporary American fiction. The dude called it. And he could see why something like this was coming. I guess you have to be able to see the warning signs in order to predict the future. Otherwise, it’s just a guess. So now I’ve turned to reading The Plague, by Albert Camus, for the third or fourth time. I’m really bummed that I can’t get my hands on the new translation by Robin Buss. I’ve heard good things about it. If only I had a can of lilac-colored spray paint, I could get to work on that painting in the studio.